


lisa's favorite murder gremlin

by weekend_conspiracy_theorist



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 06:55:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7034506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekend_conspiracy_theorist/pseuds/weekend_conspiracy_theorist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone has left a dead bird on Lisa's kitchen table, and she's not particularly amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lisa's favorite murder gremlin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_warm_beige_color](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_warm_beige_color/gifts).



Kirk is not an outdoor cat.

He’s five pounds overweight, leggy, with a little bit of an underbite, and Lisa (who has been picking up strays off the streets and hiding kittens under her bed since she was seven years old) has never met a cat with less of a killer instinct. (A mouse walked leisurely in front of him, once, and he just half-heartedly pawed at it from too far away to even reach.)

He’s definitely not a suspect.

Now Spock–

Spock is eleven pounds of lean, mean, rat-catching machine. When Kirk is hamming it up in Lisa’s lap, Spock is probably either curled up into his best imitation of a soccer ball or patrolling the edges of the apartment. He’s still not fond of the world beyond the walls of Lisa’s apartment- turns up his whiskers at the slightest hint of a breeze- but it’s not outside the realm of possibility for him to be the culprit.

Lisa’s bet, however, is on McCoy.

McCoy’s not as leggy as Kirk, not quite so lean as Spock, but what he lacks in elegance he makes up for in zeal. Every time Lisa opens her front door, a black-and-white streak makes a break for it; every time Lisa utilizes her balcony as a point of egress/ingress for Glider business, McCoy tries to hitch a ride on her metaphorical coattails (and literal shoelaces). Sometimes she sits out there with a book (or a nice set of blueprints) and lets the fuzzball get his supervised fill of the great outdoors–

And whenever a feathered creature of any type (including Hawkgirl, on one particularly _memorable_ occasion) flutters past, Lisa’s favorite murder gremlin gets a special sparkle in his eye and a preparatory quiver in his rump.

So once Lisa has disposed of the bird (a robin, she thinks, though it’s hard to tell) and thoroughly scrubbed down her kitchen table, she tracks the suspiciously absent feline to his hiding place behind the couch. She drags him out (to yowls of protest) and lifts him up, hands gentle around his ribs, to gaze him sternly in the eye. His tail flicks side to side, annoyed, in her lower periphery.

“The only person allowed to dump dead bodies in my kitchen is me,” she tells him.

He licks his lips, utterly unrepentant.


End file.
